Cancer kidnaps you

At age 73, I was cruising, enjoying recent retirement, my family and writing this column for the 37th year. The north Louisiana roads were still all open to me.

Then, like an earthquake in Lincoln Parish, I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a cancer formed by malignant plasma cells that reproduce uncontrollably. "Fatal, but treatable," in the words of one doctor. It was Christmas 2011.

Kate broke the news to me, kneeling by my recliner, her hand on my arm. "We'll get through it together," she said.

Cancer had kidnapped me and I would be confined to UAMS and the Myeloma Institute for Research and Therapy in Little Rock, Ark. for eight long months.

There had been signals of a deep problem for months before an almost accidental diagnosis. There was a spear in my lower back that I could not dislodge.

Finally, Kate took me to a pain center in Monroe where they performed a kyphoplasty, inserting surgical cement into the cracked vertebrae; the accompanying biopsy revealed multiple myeloma.

At UAMS, I was under an aggressive, frontal treatment pioneered by my doctor, Bart Barlogie, which centers on stem cell transplants and genetic categorized treatment plans. Out with the cancerous cells; in with the healthy cells.

The genius doctor is smallish, with a shaved head, and he wore a leather jacket and leather pants. His powerful, red Italian motorcycle was parked outside next to his office.

As time went on, Barlogie didn't look small. In fact, he loomed large, gruff but golden, and Kate and I wound up hugging him after visits. We learned that, indeed, UAMS and Barlogie were world-famous for their treatment and research of multiple myeloma.

But of course the brutal chemo treatments took their toll; chemo is the killing cure. A combination of chemotherapy and Thalidomide left me with almost constant diarrhea and nausea.

As promised, however, Kate was with me all the way, sleeping on a pallet next to my bed. She was my advocate and protector.

Her finest hour came when I was in physical therapy, having just been transferred to a rehabilitation hospital. Through much miscommunication and lack of coordination between new physicians and the previous hospital, they eliminated all of my pain medications, which I was taking less of, but still needed to be stepped down from after nine months of continual pain.

I immediately went into a withdrawal tailspin, dog sick, and unable to start the therapy. Kate summoned the doctors to the room and rose to her imposing 5-foot-9-inch height.

"This is a physical therapy facility, not a drug rehab," she snapped. "He has been on a long list of medications, and he cannot stop taking them cold turkey. If you don't restore his meds, I will take him out of here right now."

The doctors surrendered, using the phrases "miscommunication and incomplete charts"; my regular meds were restored. I felt better in minutes. I never loved Kate more than seeing her handle that confrontation.

There were a couple of close calls. I had none of the out-of-body experiences, but I once counted seven IVs in me while being rushed to the emergency room.

The hallucinations tortured me. I imagined, real as anything, that I was in a rural Rapides Parish hospital where a sheriff, not a doctor, was routinely dispensing cocaine.

But finally the blood and plasma cells surfaced. I felt better. Every night Kate read me the various emails and cards from former Louisiana Tech University journalism students, readers of this column and family and friends. It was enormously encouraging.

A sure sign of progress: I asked my daughter Ann Marie Hilburn to put her phone to the radio and call me, and I was soon listening to the soothing voices of Dave Nitz and Malcolm Butler calling Tech games. Later, we figured out how to get the basketball games on Kate's laptop.

Dr. B. finally said I was in remission, the myeloma at least temporarily gone. The doctor said I had made a "remarkable recovery." I was moved to outpatient quarters in Little Rock. Soon I was making longer and longer trips home. The myeloma remains in remission. Right now I'm on a three-month release. Dr. B's median remission standard is up to 10 years.

Greg Hilburn, my oldest son and a fellow journalist, strongly encouraged me to resume my column. At first I said no, but here I am, and glad of it. The kidnapper had released me - after a price was paid - and with the threat of the monster seizing me yet again.

No matter. north Louisiana's roads are open to me, at least one more time.

ADVERTISEMENT

ADVERTISEMENT

ADVERTISEMENT

Email this article

Cancer kidnaps you

At age 73, I was cruising, enjoying recent retirement, my family and writing this column for the 37th year. The north Louisiana roads were still all open to me.